


You Needed My Trust (Now You Need My Love)

by BananaChef



Series: Missed Smutportunities [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blushing, Book 3: A Storm of Swords, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Time, Harrenhal, How Do I Tag, Jaime is a tits man, POV Brienne of Tarth, Shameless Smut, Tenderness, The Sack of King's Landing, Trust Issues, Vaginal Fingering, also when it comes to Jaime's body, beware: there's like 3k words of not-fucking before the fucking, i won't lie this was just me pushing them together and going "now fuck!!", kind of, on Brienne's body's side at least, this was just self-indulgent to the maximum, wbk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25253848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaChef/pseuds/BananaChef
Summary: She suddenly found herself next to him, murmuring, “You should sit up, it’ll help you breathe better,” but how she’d noticed he was beginning to struggle for air was beyond her. She held his bicep as she hauled him up and propped him up against the wall of the bath, taking her hands away from Jaime as if burnt. Neither said anything for a moment, caught in each other’s gazes. “Give me the soap and brush,” Brienne requested softly, and he complied, handing each to her separately.She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed at the first touch of the brush on his skin. “The night Aerys burned Chelsted, I was made to stand outside his chambers as he raped Queen Rhaella. I had to listen to her screams and cries and I couldn’t do anything because I had sworn a vow. I tried to go away inside again, but I couldn’t. My fellow white-cloak, Jon Darry, was standing watch with me, still in King’s Landing. I pointed out that we had sworn to protect the queen. He told me, ‘but not from him’—that we weren’t to protect the queen from the king. I couldn’t—I couldn’t fail another woman, Brienne. I couldn’t do it.”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Missed Smutportunities [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840402
Comments: 10
Kudos: 116





	You Needed My Trust (Now You Need My Love)

**Author's Note:**

> and now i can sleep peacefully knowing i had these two fuck each other FINALLY

Brienne determinedly scrubbed herself clean with the brush she’d been given by the attendant assigned to her, reciting what her purpose was in her mind. _Bring Jaime to King’s Landing._ She decidedly wasn’t thinking about the Kingslayer as her attendant washed her hair, revealing its bright blond color. Straw was a commonly-used word to describe it. Starlight was the term her father had used. Brienne scrubbed herself back into focus. _Bring back Sansa and Arya._

No, she didn’t trust Jaime—somehow she found herself thinking and calling him by his given name, now—to keep his oath to Lady Catelyn. How could she? Yet some part of her wanted to believe that he had enough honor in him yet to keep his vow. _But he’s an oathbreaker,_ the walls inside her argued. _I’ve seen him at his worst. Does that mean nothing? When he had resigned to death he listened to my counsel,_ another, more hopeful, part of Brienne argued.

She set the brush aside to submerge herself into the steaming water, rinsing out the soap in her hair at her attendant’s command. Sitting back up, she scrubbed her arm viciously, trying and failing to banish thoughts of Jaime. What did she care if he kept his oath? The plan rested on Tyrion Lannister participating in the exchange, not on the Kingslayer following through with his vows.

“Not so hard, wench. You’ll scrub the skin off.”

His voice echoed throughout the bathhouse and Brienne dropped her brush into the water, covering her meager breasts with her arm, ignoring their stiff peaks. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, lowering her chest into the darkened water as she grabbed the brush and set it on the edge of the tub next to her soap and wet rag.

“Lord Bolton insists that I sup with him but he neglected to invite my fleas,” Jaime replied, voice abrasive. “Help me out of these stinking rags.” Brienne averted her eyes dutifully, gazing into the water as his guard helped him out of his clothes. “Now leave us. My lady of Tarth doesn’t want the likes of you scum gaping at her teats.” She flushed, chancing a look at Jaime as he gestured to her attendant with his stump. “You too. Wait without. I don’t need your pity-help when washing.”

Both guard and attendant left without another word as Jaime slowly walked toward the tub Brienne was in, looking half a corpse, half a god in the mist. She swallowed, mouth dry. “There are other tubs,” she feebly pointed out, moving to the opposite corner of theirs.

“This one suits me well enough,” Jaime responded, immersing himself in the steaming water with a relieved sigh. Brienne watched the tension drain from his frame; he propped his maimed arm on the side of the tub as he let his eyes slip closed, head gently resting against the rim. “Have no fear, wench. Do I look healthy enough to steal a demure woman’s maidenhead, let alone yours?” He sighed, stretching his limbs in the relaxing water; Brienne chastised herself for thinking about the implications of his rhetorical question. “If I faint, pull me out. No Lannister has ever drowned in a bath and I don’t intend to be the first.”

“Why should I care how you die?” she attempted to spit out, but it came out too fast and her voice was somewhat hoarse; she prayed Jaime didn’t pick up on that in his weakened state.

“You swore a solemn vow.” He opened his eyes, smirking at the blush creeping up her neck, unbidden, and she brought her legs up in front of her chest, looking away from Jaime. “Still a shy maiden, wench? I would have thought we grew past that during our trip here, but apparently not.”

His words stung, for a reason Brienne couldn’t name. _He’s upset that I don’t trust him,_ her mind said, and she bit her lip. _I shouldn’t feel sorry for him, my disliking of him is his own doing._

“It seems we have only one bar of soap between us,” Jaime stated, and what he was asking was clear enough. “As well as only one brush.”

She turned her back to him as she reached over the ledge of the bath and grabbed the soap, submerging herself back into the water before going over to him. Their fingers touched as he took the soap and brush from her hand, and she went back to her spot in the corner hastily. She refused to look at him, afraid of what her body would do next if she did. First, the tightened peaks of her breasts, and now the fire his touch lit on her skin. She would need to deal with this, in the room she was given, late at night when no one would bother her and she could get everything out of her system to act with more clarity.

Brienne heard the gentle lapping of waves made by his awkward scrubbing and his quiet intake of air before he spoke. “Does the sight of my stump distress you so?” Jaime asked ruefully. _No,_ she wanted to say, _I am afraid of what my body is telling me._ “You ought to be pleased. I’ve lost the hand that I killed the king with. The hand that flung the Stark boy from that tower.” He paused and she looked over at his sullen form. “If not pleased, then grateful. Every good deed I do gets rewarded by hate and pain. I don’t know why I bother. No wonder Renly died, what with someone like _you_ guarding him.”

Something snapped inside of Brienne, something that made her stand up in anger, towering over his sitting form. “Don’t insult me, Kingslayer. What killed His Grace was a foul, dark magic. If I could have died instead of him, I would have.”

She watched as his eyes perused her body, almost of their own accord, before he forced them to the water. “That was unworthy,” he mumbled, swallowing thickly. “I’m a maimed man, and bitter. Forgive me, wench. You protected me as well as any man, and better than most.”

 _Do you mock me?_ she wanted to ask as she sat down opposite him in the water, but instead settled for, “I _am_ grateful. Most would have let the Mummers have their way with me without so much as a glance. You didn’t deserve to lose your sword hand. But you’re still Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock without it, despite what you may think.”

They met each other’s eyes, blue to green, silent but for their breaths. Jaime looked open and vulnerable and lost. “What say we make a truce?” he asked softly, eyes bright in the midst of the dirt and dried blood on his face.

“Truces are built on trust.” She could see the understanding in Jaime’s eyes; the realization that she didn’t (and shouldn’t) trust him. _I want to,_ she realized.

“And you cannot trust the Kingslayer, the oathbreaker who murdered poor, sad Aerys Targaryen.” He snorted with derision, looking away from Brienne for a moment. When he looked back, there was regret and sadness in his eyes. “Are you familiar with wildfire?” She nodded, watching him intently. “My brother set Blackwater Rush afire with it when Stannis’s navy attacked. Aerys would’ve bathed in it if he’d had the chance. The Targaryens were all mad for fire.” He slid further into the water until it reached just below his chin; Brienne brought her hands together in her lap, forcing herself to stay on her side of the bath against her instinct to wash the man across from her. “I soiled my white cloak...but I wore my gold armor that day...”

“Gold armor?” she questioned, confused as to where he was going with all of this.

“Lannister armor,” Jaime clarified, shifting against the hard stone of the bath. “I was there when Rickard and Brandon Stark were killed. I went away inside but I felt sick and disgusted. Brandon strangled himself to death trying to save his father from burning... After Connington’s dancing griffins lost the Battle of the Bells, Aerys exiled him. He’d finally realized that Robert was no mere outlaw lord to be crushed at whim, but the greatest threat House Targaryen had faced since Daemon Blackfyre. The king reminded Lewyn Martell gracelessly that he held Elia and sent him to take command of the ten thousand Dornishmen coming up the kingsroad. Jon Darry and Barristan Selmy rode to Stoney Sept to rally what they could of the griffin’s men, and Prince Rhaegar returned from the south and persuaded his father to swallow his pride and summon my father.

“But no raven returned from Casterly Rock, and that made the king even more afraid. He saw traitors everywhere, and Varys was always there to point out any he might have missed. So His Grace commanded alchemists to place caches of wildfire all over King’s Landing. Beneath Baelor’s Sept and the hovels of Flea Bottom, under stables and storehouses, at all seven gates, even in the cellars of the Red Keep itself.”

Jaime took a deep, shuddering breath, gazing at Brienne intently. “Everything was done in the utmost secrecy by a handful of master pyromancers. They didn’t even trust their own acolytes to help. The queen’s eyes had been closed for years, and Rhaegar was busy marshaling an army. But Aerys’s new mace-and-dagger Hand was not utterly stupid, and with Rossart, Belis, and Garigus coming and going night and day, he became suspicious. Chelsted, that was his name, Lord Chelsted. I’d thought the man craven, but the day he confronted Aerys he found some courage somewhere. He did all he could to dissuade him; he reasoned, he jested, he threatened, and finally, he begged. When that failed, he took off his chain of office and flung it down on the floor. Aerys burnt him alive for that and hung his chain about the neck of Rossart, his favorite pyromancer: the man who had cooked Lord Rickard in his own armor.

“Throughout it all, I stood by the foot of the Iron Throne in my white plate, still as a corpse, guarding my liege and all his sweet secrets,” Jaime spat out, and though he was looking at Brienne, he seemed to be seeing past her, into his memories. He seemed more gaunt and haunted than when he walked into the room. “My Sworn Brothers were all away, you see, but Aerys liked to keep me close. I was my father’s son—he didn’t trust me. He wanted me where Varys could watch me, day and night. So I heard it _all._ ”

She suddenly found herself next to him, murmuring, “You should sit up, it’ll help you breathe better,” but how she’d noticed he was beginning to struggle for air was beyond her. She held his bicep as she hauled him up and propped him up against the wall of the bath, taking her hands away from Jaime as if burnt. Neither said anything for a moment, caught in each other’s gazes. “Give me the soap and brush,” Brienne requested softly, and he complied, handing each to her separately.

She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed at the first touch of the brush on his skin. “The night Aerys burned Chelsted, I was made to stand outside his chambers as he raped Queen Rhaella. I had to listen to her screams and cries and I couldn’t do anything because I had sworn a vow. I tried to go away inside again, but I couldn’t. My fellow white-cloak, Jon Darry, was standing watch with me, still in King’s Landing. I pointed out that we had sworn to protect the queen. He told me, ‘but not from him’—that we weren’t to protect the queen from the king. I couldn’t—I couldn’t fail another woman, Brienne. I couldn’t do it.”

She sucked in a breath at the use of her name, heart twisting at the fragility of his voice. Jaime sounded broken and lonely and afraid—of what, Brienne couldn’t say. She inched closer to him, bringing the brush up to his face; he winced when it touched one of his cuts and she immediately rescinded her touch, murmuring an apology. She made her way to her corner of the tub, grabbed her rag, and went back to his side. She used the small towel to gently clean his face, and he continued speaking.

“Rhaegar met Robert on the Trident, and you know what happened there. When word reached court, Aerys packed the queen off to Dragonstone with Prince Viserys. Princess Elia would have gone as well, but he forbade it. Somehow he’d gotten it in his head that Prince Lewyn must have betrayed Rhaegar on the Trident, but he thought he could keep Dorne loyal so long as he kept Elia and her children by his side. ‘The traitors want my city,’ I heard him tell Rossart once, ‘but I’ll give them naught but ashes. Let Robert be king over charred bones and cooked meat.’

“The Targaryens never bury their dead, they burn them. Aerys meant to have the greatest funeral pyre of them all. I don’t think he expected to die... Like Aerion Brightfire before him, Aerys thought the fire would transform him—that he would rise again, reborn as a dragon, and turn all his enemies to ash.” Brienne moved in front of Jaime, cleaning the last parts of his face before moving on to his maimed arm, still using the rag to clean him. She sat near him on the ledge of the adjacent side of the tub, their knees brushing. She cleaned off the dirt methodically, not chancing a look in his eyes at this angle.

“Ned Stark was racing south with Robert’s van, but my father’s forces had reached the city first. Pycelle convinced the king that his Warden of the West had come to defend him, so he opened the gates. The one time he _should_ have listened to Varys, and he ignored him. My father had held back from the war, brooding on all the wrongs Aerys had done him and determined that House Lannister should be on the winning side. The Trident decided him. It fell to me to hold the Red Keep, but I knew we were lost. I sent to Aerys asking his leave to make terms. My man came back with a royal command: ‘Bring me your father’s head, if you are no traitor.’ He would have no yielding, and Lord Rossart was with him; I knew what that meant.”

Brienne moved on to Jaime’s hair, squeezing water onto his head with the rag. “Could you close your eyes?” she requested softly from in front of him, and he did. She stood up enough to see the top of his head clearly and began to wash his hair with the bar of soap, determinedly not thinking about how close her breasts were to his face.

“I found Rossart dressed as a common man-at-arms, scurrying to a postern gate.” His breath ghosted over her skin; he was so close that if he looked straight ahead and leaned forward he would be able to take her— _no,_ Brienne thought, chiding her libido as she bit her lip. “I slew him first. Then I went to the throne room, where I found Aerys. He asked me if it was my father’s blood staining my sword. When I told him it was Rossart’s, he tried to run. I grabbed him on the steps of the Iron Throne and slit his throat to make sure he didn’t pass his message on to one of the other pyromancers. Days later, I hunted down the other two. Belis offered me gold, but no amount of gold is worth half a million lives, and Garigus wept for mercy, which I gave to him—with my sword.”

Brienne had massaged his scalp as she washed his hair, hoping to help with Jaime’s probable headache. She had him dunk his head in the water for a few moments as she washed out the soap in his hair before he came up for air, sopping wet. _He looks like a nearly-drowned lion,_ she thought, before having him turn around so his back was to her. “I heard Ned Stark found you sitting on the Iron Throne,” she pressed quietly, using the brush to clean his back.

She could practically hear the distaste in Jaime’s voice when he huffed out a laugh. “He did. After I killed Aerys, Lannister men burst into the throne room to the sight of me standing with the Mad King’s body at my feet, sword stained by his blood. I was wearing my gold armor and white cloak that day. It must have been an astounding sight for my father’s men: Jaime Lannister, merely ten and seven years of age, barely a man grown, having slain the king only moments ago.” He sighed and Brienne had him turn back around to face her; she sat in her previous spot adjacent to him and started washing his legs.

“I was numb by then,” Jaime continued, gazing at her, and she met his green eyes with her blue ones for a moment before continuing to clean him. “I had no idea what to do with myself; I wanted to retch, I wanted to cry, I wanted to be held by somebody—I wanted someone to tell me I’d made the right choice. I told my father’s men to spare any who surrendered, and that was when Lord Crakehall asked if he was to proclaim a new king. He asked _me,_ and maybe I was foolish to let someone else decide, but I got across to him that I had no interest in who ruled. Perhaps sitting on the Iron Throne, waiting to see who would enter next was not the wisest decision, but leaving was craven. I couldn’t retch or cry or be held by somebody. Craven Kingslayer has a nice sound to it, does it not?” He sighed, his stump moving a fraction before his left hand came out of the water to rub his face.

“Eddard Stark found me sitting there, having wiped Aerys and Rossart’s blood off my blade with my cloak. I took one look at him and knew he would never believe me if I told him all that I’ve told you. He’d already judged me guilty: I was a Lannister, wearing Lannister armor, my cloak stained red, with the king’s body at the foot of the steps to the throne. This always comes back to me in my dreams, and I ask myself, by what right does the wolf judge the lion? _By what right_?” Jaime looked at Brienne imploringly, and they stayed like that for a small while. “Has my tale rendered you speechless? Come, curse me or kiss me or call me a liar— _something._ ”

“I believe you,” she whispered, heart thudding loudly in her chest as his mouth opened in surprise. “I truly do. And—I trust you.” She hesitantly reached out to him with her right hand, pushing his newly-washed hair away from his eyes; Brienne brushed her thumb over the wound above his eye, the palm of her hand ghosting against his cheek.

He leaned into the contact, placing a kiss to her hand after a charged gaze. “I’m glad,” Jaime told her softly, and then all she could do was gasp as he kissed the inside of her wrist and up her arm. Suddenly she found herself straddling him, one hand at the nape of his neck, the other holding his maimed arm to stop it from getting in the water. She pulled his stump close to her chest, breathing heavily as she watched his gaze become misty. “I regret all the terrible things I said to you. I was wrong and I was blind and you are... _gods,_ you are too good for me.”

Brienne kissed him then, inexperienced and clumsy, all teeth and lips until they found a rhythm. Then their tongues joined in, Jaime’s first, taking and taking, and she was happy to give. She found herself sitting on his thigh, eyes closed, whimpering as he kissed his way across her jaw and down her neck. Soon enough, his lips latched onto the peak of a breast, causing her to cry out and grind herself against him. “Jaime,” she breathed, tangling a hand in his golden hair. “Jaime, _gods._ ”

His stump jerked against her chest as if to wrap around her waist, but she stopped him again, breathing heavily as he pulled away from her nipple. He swallowed heavily and looked up at Brienne. “I’m not sure how to—how to do this. My hand—it’s essentially useless, I wouldn’t know how to touch you. And I’ve only ever been with one woman.”

His pupils had mostly edged out the green of Jaime’s eyes by now, and she could feel his arousal between them along with an ache between her thighs. She leaned down and kissed him again, somewhat chastely. “I could help you,” she suggested nervously, close enough to his face that their eyes were closed. “I could, um, I could help you touch me the way I touch myself.”

Jaime claimed her lips passionately for a moment, his left arm going around Brienne’s waist to pull her closer to him. “Yes, please,” he replied, bordering on desperation. She took his hand in hers, palm to back, and led it through the water to where she was aching. She raised herself in the water, making eye contact with Jaime, who looked up at Brienne in awe. His self-described clumsy fingers parted the folds of her labia, and she sucked in a breath, letting it out in a quiet moan when she guided his thumb to her clit.

Their intense eye contact ended when Jaime leaned forward and took her neglected nipple in his mouth and suckled it, circling her nub with his thumb. Brienne shuddered, one hand going to the rim of the tub for balance. “Tell me,” he murmured, pulling away from her breast to suckle her neck, “when you touch yourself, do you think of Renly still?” She gasped as he entered one finger inside her, so slowly it was a sort of torture, and she shook her head with a whimper. “You’ve touched yourself during our journey here?”

Brienne felt hot all over, partially from his ministrations of circling her clit with his thumb along with thrusting a finger inside her, and partially from the blush that spread through her face, neck, and chest. She nodded against his head, cheek pressed to his hair and eyes closed tightly. “Green eyes,” she choked out, wrapping her left arm over Jaime’s shoulder and around to the other one. “I think about your eyes. They— _fuck_ —they...they make me feel safe.” A gasp. “You were predictable. You could have killed me—hit me on the head with an oar or strangled me with your chains.” She moaned as he added another finger, rocking against his hand. “But you chose not to.” And then: “Oh gods, I’m close.”

Brienne came with a cry muffled against his golden-haired head, sitting down in his lap. She came back to the feeling of his fingers stroking the small of her back. Before she could second guess anything, she grasped his manhood in her hands, sat up, and sank down onto him. “Gods, wench,” Jaime swore, bucking up into her automatically. _It was supposed to hurt more,_ she thought vaguely. “You gave up your maidenhead just now, Brienne. To _me._ Why in the seven hells would you do that?”

She moved against him, gasping as he groaned in the back of his throat. “I trust you, Jaime. I trust you.” Brienne murmured his name as she rode him, claiming his mouth with hers until she fell over the edge, him with her. “I know what I did. I don’t regret it.” Jaime pulled her impossibly closer with his good arm, burying his face in her chest, golden hair tickling her neck. “I know the possible repercussions.”

They were both silent for a long while, until Jaime looked up at Brienne, extending his right arm toward her face as if to cup her cheek. He stopped short, but she smiled gently and held his arm close. “Stay with me here for a while,” he asked hoarsely, so she did, running her fingers through his hair.


End file.
